The Only Thing
by Cecelia S. Bradley
Summary: I live for the day that I can reveal I'm different. I'm afraid that that day will actually come. But Holts don't feel fear. They don't show it, at least.


**This oneshot is dedicated to Sun Daughter, who never hesitates to be a friend. I'm sorry I don't have a better one for you, Summer. I hope you like it.**

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They think I'm a jock.

Well, I suppose I am, in a sense. Sports are my life. Heck, they're my whole family's life. But what I mean is the brawn-no-brains jock, the dumb-idiot jock. And the boy who has no life but football.

That's not true.

But nobody knows that.

Everybody has their little secrets. Naturally, I have mine. I _do _have a life outside of touchdowns and referee's whistles. It's like I lead a double life. There's the side everybody sees, the side that talks in sports terms and goes nuts about tickets to professional games. _That _side.

I consider myself a good actor.

Apparently, according to what my drama teacher said, actors put a role upon themselves by finding anything they can relate to the character the play. I put on my role because my parents would never accept me otherwise, because my sisters would never look up to me again, because I don't want to be considered the black sheep.

Even though I'm trying to turn white.

I'm not saying that _that_ side of me isn't good; I couldn't live without it. And I'm not saying that that side of me is fake; it's fifty percent of the real me.

But that's only fifty percent.

There is the other side. The side I've hidden really well since the Clue hunt. The side I've become so afraid to show the world that I sometimes forget it exists.

"Holts don't feel fear." All that jazz. I suppose it's true—for eighty percent of my family. But 80/100 isn't a full grade. Math's taught me that.

I live off of a pretense. And the bad thing is that I actually don't mind. After a pep talk with Dad before a football game, I always feel pumped. When I catch an interception, the adrenaline of the crowd surges into me. And nothing feels wrong. At all.

But then I remember the other me.

I don't know if it's my Jekyll side or my Hyde one, but it's definitely there. And I won't always be able to hide it. Hide the bare truth. That I like computers. That I want to fill my sometimes empty head with knowledge. And that I actually _care_ about some things.

That is the side that makes up the other fifty percent. The other fifty yards of my touchdown. I need all of the hundred to score.

I live for the day that I can reveal that I'm different.

I'm afraid that that day will actually come.

But Holts don't feel fear. They don't show it, at least.

0-o-0-o-0-o-0

_Down, set, hike!_ The center snaps the ball and I tear down the field. Somebody in red's trying to guard me, and so I snake around a little bit. I can see that ball coming. It's falling down, falling into my hands. It's mine. And now I've got to do.

I streak past the thirty yard line, racing against the timer, ticking its final seconds, racing the boy behind me. Ten, five, one, and I'm there.

I'm there.

I did it! I did it! Of course, I score every game, but there's nothing like knowing that _you_ were part of the game, that you made six points of the score happen.

And seeing their coach's face—he's glaring at me like I just ran off with his wallet. Full wallet. I smile cheerfully and wave at him, enjoying his rage as he turns around and stomps out into the bleachers.

Life is good.

"Thattaboy! That's the way to do it!"

I look into the stands and see my dad, cheering for me louder than a marching band, smiling bigger than a gigabyte. My mom's taking pictures rapid-fire, calling out, "You see him? The boy that just won the game? He's my son!" And I bask in their pride, feeling warm even though it's forty degrees and the air is _cold_. Which reminds me to actually get off the field now that the game's over.

I trot over to where Coach AJ is handing out Styrofoam cups filled with hot chocolate. He calls us into a huddle.

"Now, boys, great job today! That was a fantastic game! Defense, you need to work some—they scored thirty-eight points. But offense, whooey! I'm not worried there." All of us OLers grinned at each other.

"And the Player of the Day goes to Hamilton Holt! That catch at the end was perfect, and you were running faster than anything. Three claps for Hamilton!"

Everybody else claps three times, our team's tradition, but some of the boys are shooting glares at me. I bet I know why. It's probably because I won that at the last game, and the game before that, and the game before that, and—I don't think there's been a game when Coach hasn't given me the award. Actually, there was the one I couldn't play because I fractured my shinbone, but it does seem a little bit unfair that I win every time.

Not that I'm going to tell Coach that. Getting the awards makes me feel better, feel less out-of-place, feel like I'm needed here. And it feels good.

Really good.

I'm still feeling really good when Reagan creeps into my room an hour after we get back home. She throws herself back on my bed and starts bouncing on the Packers bedspread.

"Hamilton? Ham?"

I turn around from my desk where I've been working on homework. "Hey! What's up?"

"Nothin'. I just came in to say hi. Good job at the game, by the way. They really need to make girls' football teams."

"Yeah," I say. "Then you and Madison could play. But seriously, what's up?"

"I said nothing!"

I snort in a very ungentlemanly fashion. My history teacher _hates_ when I do that.

"Really! Quit bugging me!"

I look at her.

"Okay, fine. But I don't know how to say it." She lays back on my bed and sighs.

"Then don't say it." Reagan looks at me. "Just kidding. What is it?"

"Well, have you ever felt like—like you need to hide part of yourself, like you can't show it to anybody because they won't like it?"

Yes. Yes. A thousand times I had felt like that. And it tore at me, and it dug into my mind, and it make me feel like a right tackle was standing on my shoulders and weighing me down so I couldn't run.

"Nope. I haven't. Why?"

I couldn't tell my sister that. Then she'd look at me, and raise her eyebrows and widen her eyes, and then walk quickly out of my room. And I'd never be able to be a "big brother" for her again.

"Oh. No reason. I-I need to be finishing homework. B-bye." Reagan starts walking out of the room. She turns to look back at me as she reached the door. And I see something in her eyes.

Disappointment.

That I had let her down. That I should have been there to help her, to support her and encourage her in whatever she needed. And that I hadn't.

Not at all.

"Reagan!"

I didn't even realize I had said anything until I heard my voice. She turns around, her eyes now speckled with hope and anticipation. They're shining like the lights of a computer screen.

"Come back in, Rea. I have, actually. I feel like that all of the time."

0-o-0-o-0-o-0

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

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End file.
